


The Tightest Fit

by FiaMac



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Arthur Has A Big Dick, Eames Can Take It Though, Established Relationship, Large Cock, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Smut, eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 09:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12504164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/pseuds/FiaMac
Summary: "Hush,” he soothes around his own dry throat, running his hands over the tops of Eames’s thighs. “You can take it. I know you can. Just go slow."





	The Tightest Fit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oceaxe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/gifts).



> A belated birthday gift. Enjoy.

Three years ago, Arthur was thrown into an electrified fence during a knife fight gone wrong. His memory of the experience is hazy—bright strobes behind his eyelids, searing heat, and the agonized sensation of every muscle in his body coiling tight.

Watching Eames hover over him, clenching down on the tip of his dick, Arthur feels like he’s back in that industrial lot, knocked on his ass by a ten-thousand volt hit.

“Arth-Arthur,” Eames pants, voice cracked and wrecked after hours of moaning. “ _Arthur_. Maybe we need to—”

“Hush,” he soothes around his own dry throat, running his hands over the tops of Eames’s thighs. “You can take it. I know you can. Just go slow.” The muscles under his palms are tense, quivering with the effort of holding Eames up, preventing himself from dropping down too quickly on the thick cock that’s trying to split him open.

Eames is tired, Arthur knows. They’ve been at this for a long time, after all.

 

 

The first half of the evening is quiet and easy, spent kissing and stroking each other in front of the muted television. Becoming reacquainted with one another’s bodies after too many long months separated, too many heated phone calls and furtive texts that did nothing to appease the slavish need for touch.

They’re back together, now. Eames is back where he belongs, where Arthur can covet and hoard him like a precious treasure. But it’s been too long since he was last inside Eames, and all the careful work they’ve put into training his body to accept Arthur’s has been nullified.

And, so, Arthur has to start from the beginning—getting Eames relaxed, warmed up. Laying Eames across their bed and preparing him. First with his mouth, softening that bashful little hole with kitten licks and sipping kisses until Eames’s legs are draped loose around his shoulders. At which point Arthur presses in with his tongue, reminding Eames what it feels like to be penetrated by something more exciting than his owns fingers. Over and over, Arthur licks into him, tugging on that flexing rim with his lips and sometimes the barest edge of his teeth until Eames is a sobbing mess.

Almost ready.

Arthur enters him with one slicked up finger, then. Tucks it in slowly, oh so gently. Smooths the lube in as deep as he can with his finger. Then two. He cranes himself up over Eames’s squirming body so that he can watch for the slightest hint of pain while he works Eames open, bit by bit, until he has four fingers crammed into Eames’s hole—soaked and loose, greedily taking everything that Arthur has to give.

He keeps Eames locked on that edge for a while, fingers moving slowly and surely but taking care to avoid Eames’s prostate. Despite the fact that Arthur is fucking into him with practically his entire hand, he doesn’t let Eames come. _Won’t_ let Eames come until Arthur has filled that lush ass and seated himself as far as he can go.

 

 

At long last, Arthur drags Eames over his lap and begins the gradual process of working his cock in. Even with all his preparations, it’s still an overly tight squeeze. So he carefully pushes in. Up into that hot, clenching grip that he’d been craving since the day Eames left for Nigeria.

The unhappy reminder puts a possessive bite in his grip, hands curving around Eames’s thighs to instinctively bring him closer.

A ragged cry breaks free from Eames’s throat at the unexpected move, taking a little too must just a little too soon. Arthur feels the sound low in his belly like a visceral echo. He wants to cry out, too, to scream and growl into the warm skin of Eames’s neck while he re-stakes his claim on every tattooed, muscle-bound inch of Eames’s body. Starting with the hottest, deepest parts that no other man will ever know again.

By the time he’s got Eames spread around the head of his dick, they’re both covered in a sheen of sweat and desperation. The need has simmered in Arthur’s veins for hours now, he fears he might actually die if he doesn’t get to come soon. But not yet, damnit. Not until he’s _in_.

Eames braces himself on Arthur’s knees and rocks down with small movements and a series of jagged whimpers. Arthur can feel Eames’s hole flex and release, feel how it’s trying to close around his cock despite being forced open to the limit.

The unintentional caress claws at Arthur’s sanity and the ability to think about anything but his aching dick.

Eames’s own erection juts up in front of him—hard and flushed with pent up arousal, the tip so wet it makes Arthur wish he could have his mouth on it without having to give up his precious place inside Eames’s ass.

He slips in another half inch. Pulls out another tired moan. Nearly halfway.

“Come on, baby,” he reaches under to stroke his fingers over Eames’s rim, feeling how the muscle is stretched smooth and taut around the thick intrusion of his shaft. Eames’s hips chase the caress, shifting ever so slowly downward, gradually squeezing down to where Arthur is at his widest.

“I… Arthur, I can’t. I _can’t_.” Distress makes Eames’s voice soft and breathy. Arthur wants to consume all that sweetness, devour it.

“Yes,” he insists. “Here, let me help you.”

He strengthens his hold on Eames’s hips and thrusts up a little, just until he can hear Eames’s breath catch on fresh moan, before dragging his cock back out in a long slide.

“Oh, Christ. Arthur.”

“There you are. Feel that?” He shoves up again, feels himself go deeper and tighter before withdrawing. “Feel me inside you? Fuck, I’ve missed this.”

Eames’s eyes are screwed up shut, but Arthur can see the sheen of tears at the corners. He watches Eames’s face, that gorgeous and sinful mouth dropping open in response to Arthur’s lengthening thrusts. It’s the expression he makes when he’s overwhelmed in both good and bad ways, and Arthur knows he needs to fuck past that last, remaining tension before Eames can surrender to the pleasure.

“Let me make it feel good,” he coaxes, trailing a hand up the shivering lines of Eames’s torso. Curling his hand around one ink-marked shoulder, he tugs Eames forward. “Come on.”

With a sloppy nod, Eames brings his arms in front, bracing them on either side of Arthur’s head, and leans in. Arthur capitalizes on the freedom to move and snaps his hips up with intention.

Almost instantly, Eames gasps. Quivers. Dissolves into a keening wreck as pleasure piles on top of agony.

This is Arthur’s favorite part. His size means constant pressure and friction on Eames’s prostate, unending sensation that never fails to shove Eames past endurance. And as Arthur’s ever-deepening strokes cause Eames to writhe on top of him—sometimes shying away from the intense stimulation, sometimes bearing down to take more—Arthur has to clutch at Eames’s hips and hold him steady.

Another few thrusts and Arthur—finally, mercifully—bottoms out, hips flush with Eames’s ass and cock gripped balls-deep in the tightest fit he’s ever had the privilege of enjoying. And all to the beautiful soundtrack of Eames’s sobbing cries.

“Arthur…” he huffs, screwing his hips down in a wanton bid for completion. “Oh, god. Arthur, please. Now.” The pleas degrade into frantic whimpers that spur an answering throb in Arthur’s sack, and making Eames come suddenly seems like the best idea in the world.

He gets a hand on Eames’s dick—iron hard and fever hot against the skin of his palm—and only gets in a couple of firm strokes before Eames shudders, muscles locking tight. But it’s Arthur who cries out, a rough and broken sound as Eames’s ass clamps down, almost painfully and too strong for him to move. He’s forced to wait in mind-shattering stillness as Eames comes over the top of Arthur’s fist, across his belly, and even the base of his throat. Emitting soft, panting mewls with each pulse of his dick.

After an eternity, and just when Arthur is on the brink of doing some begging of his own, Eames sags forward into his arms. After an orgasm that hard, that long-awaited, Eames is always tender. Sweet. Pliant.

And, in these moments, it is always Arthur’s great joy to push his edges just a little further.

He tips them over to the side and carefully maneuvers Eames onto his back without dislodging from his hard-won place inside Eames’s now-relaxing hole.

And starts fucking into him again.

The reaction is as instantaneous as it is delicious. Eames jolts, hands clawing at the bed sheets as if he would drag himself away from the relentless force of Arthur’s cock against oversensitized nerve endings. But Arthur doesn’t stop. He knows Eames’s body, knows Eames can give him more. And he loves to watch Eames fall apart, so beautifully, like this.

“God, I love you,” he gasps, head spinning. “So perfect for me.”

Eames can only respond with a needy whine that literally makes Arthur’s balls hurt.

He hooks one shaking leg over his arm and slams forward. Uses his other hand to hold Eames in place as he drives every inch of his cock in for thrust after thrust.

Now the tears are flowing freely down Eames’s cheeks, as he digs his head back into the mattress and wails loud enough to compete with the blood roaring in Arthur’s ears. He’s so desperate to come now. After reining himself in for hours—after months of going without Eames’s tight, eager hold—he needs to come right fucking now or he’s going to lose his goddamned mind.

He pushes in harder. Faster. Rubs in against Eames’s prostate without pity because it makes his mouth water when Eames _screams_ like that, and watches with fascination as that still-hard cock flexes and jets out a second orgasm.

“ _Fuck_.” This time the clench of Eames’s ass proves too much for Arthur’s restraint. He presses in one last time before the world lights up behind his eyes. The pressure tears him apart, fills him with liquid fire, and sears the jagged pieces back together. Leaving him a sweaty, whimpering mess with his teeth buried in Eames’s shoulder and his fingers twisted around his wrists.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Eventually Arthur gets back the feeling below the neck and is able to lift himself up off of Eames’s limp form. He tries to be gentle pulling out, but Eames still lets out a soft hiss of pain. It prompts Arthur to look between Eames’s sprawled thighs where his hole is red and slick, loose now even without anything spreading him open. A rivulet of come slips out and down between Eames’s ass cheeks, making Arthur think about rolling Eames over and starting all over again.

Instead, he moves to get up.

“No,” Eames protests almost immediately. He wraps a trembling arm around Arthur’s waist, tugs with weak hands until Arthur allows himself to be pulled in, mostly on top of Eames, face tucked into the curve of his neck.

“I should—”

“I’m fine,” Eames half-whispers. “Promise. Just stay there for a bit. Let me hold you.” And Arthur can feel him press a kiss against his hair.

“Okay,” he whispers back.


End file.
